60 years later
by Darknight Owl
Summary: Even Sam and Dean get old, and in the end the circle completes. Happy ending death-fic. Oneshot


Okay, so after lurking for ages I'm finally uploading a story, and I'm really nervous about it! :-)  
English is not my native language and I have no beta, so I'm afraid there will be mistakes (I looked closely, but I'm sure some slipped through.)

**Spoiler:** A spoiler for the beginning of season two, if you don't know what happened to John and a sentence you maybe wont get if you didn't see 5x22 Swan Song (but its not a Spoiler).  
**Warnings:** Yes, its a death fic, but don't worry, it has an happy end (I could never kill them for good :-)) And I think maybe in my head it's wincest, but it's not really mentioned in the story so read it just the way you like.  
**Disclaimer:** Sadly I don't own anything...not even a leather jacket.

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In the summertime, when the sun shined on the little house at the forest edge, and the garden was green, and the back porch was warm, they sometimes felt young and vivid again, just like long time ago when they were traveling round America hunting the supernatural.  
But indeed those times were long gone, and the last hunt belonged decades to the past.

They were old and their everyday life was all slippers and bathrobes now, all drinking coffee on the porch and working in the garden, all bird-feeding and doctor-visiting. Grey hair, age marks and dentures.

Evenings they met with friends, an old couple from the neighborhood and played poker. Dean cheated every time, but he always tipped his hand, because he couldn't keep from snickering when he frauded another win. Since they played only for cents the others didn't begrudge him his fun.

Sam liked working in his herb garden and cooked often for himself and Dean.  
Kids from the neighborhood payed visits, and the six-year-olds liked to sit on Deans lap, listening to the wild story's he always told. Most of them weren't true, but Dean narrated them with so much passion that even Sam sometimes got tangled up which of them were true and which were not.

Sam went to garage sales and collected post cards from places were they had been back in the days on the road, an endless business, because they had been nearly everywhere and they couldn't remember most of the places names. He hung all the cards on the wall in the hallway and Dean liked to argue today about this, tomorrow about that place, that they had never been there.

Dean treasured an old colt, three license plates and a box full of fake I.D.s which were so outdated that they wouldn't pass any assessments even if they would have current photos of him on them.

In the kitchen on a cupboard there was an old, dented tin box, which used to be their first-aid-kit, back then when they were on the road. They surely owned the box their lives for several times and that was why they now kept the memory's of there lives in it: the few photographs they had of themselves and their family and friends, and when they sat pie eating at the kitchen table in the afternoon, they liked to watch the pictures over and over again getting giggly or sentimental.

It was Sam's last summer, he had cancer, and he was tired. He didn't wont any more medical treatment to end up dying in a hospital, and so they had decided, that he would stay home until the very end.

They were old and their live used to be so exiting that they didn't fear the death that lay ahead, they would wait peacefully for the end to come.

When the fall came Sam got worse and he wasn't able to stand up any more, he lay in bed and Dean took care of him and the house. Sometimes Sam ranted at him, fearing Dean would let his herbarium grow wild.

One day it became hard to breath for Sam and the knew that his time had come. The whole day the sun had shined and now in the evening Dean sat on Sam's bed and they watched the old pictures one last time.

Sam stroked along one photo, it showed Dean at the age of four, holding new born Sam in his arm's for the first time in his life. Sam loved the picture.  
Another photo showed them aged around twenty-five in Bobby Singers back yard, they had their arms around each others shoulders and they were smiling, but in the distance there could to be seen a part of an old, black and dented car, and Sam knew the picture must have been taken shortly after their dad had died, their smile surely feigned for the photo.  
But Sam thought, even if there were bad times, a life which would end in so much love and peace like his live would, had to be, all summed up, a good one and he was thankful.

Dean held his hand for hours, and when Sam felt how his breath rate got lower and how his soul, despite the tightness of his chest, suddenly felt as if it had more space than usual, he tiredly turned his head to Dean and said arduously:  
"I tell you, if someone would ask me, if I would want to live this life again, I'd say 'yes' without hesitation."  
Dean leaned forward and kissed Sam on the forehead "Me too, Sam. Me too."

Their old eyes clung to one another for a moment, than Sam took one deep and last breath before he left this world, leaving Dean behind, sitting alone on the edge of his bed.  
Dean sat still holding Sam's hand until he could feel how it got colder, when, along with the live, also the warmth left Sam's body.

Dean didn't sleep in the house that night, he covered Sam with a blanked, put the most beautifulest of the photographs on his chest and sneaked away to the little garage beside their house, were, for more than twenty years now, an almost centenary, black Chevie Impala stood. She was out of running conditions since decades and her body was rusty along the edges.

Dean opened the door and lay down on the back seat. He fumbled a little green plastic soldier from one of the car sides ashtrays, he turned it over in his hands before he closed a fist around it. He grabbed an old blanked which was nearly as old as the car and pulled it over his head. Silent tears covered his face when he whispered: "Thank you Sam! For everything!" When he felt to sleep he dreamed of all the wonderful moments of his live he owned to Sam.

He buried Sam near their house on a small graveyard, the grave next to Sam was empty and Dean bought it likewise, hoping to be buried there himself one day.  
The headstone was big and gray and Dean allowed some ivy to tendril around it.

One day, when he came to the grave he embedded his old colt in the dirt, leaving only the barrel to stick out. Dean put a flower and a bunch of herbs in the barrel as if it were a vase, than he smiled down to the headstone, thinking of Sam "Admit you like it!"

Dean lived for three more years after Sam had died. He swept the house, he watered Sam's herbs, he played poker and cheated as good as he could. He bought new post cards and added them to the others in the hallway, he narrated story's to the neighbors kids and painted the fences.  
But he was tired, he felt how death pulled upon him and how Sam called for him.

He wasn't scared. He had seen and felt and undergone everything you could wish for in your live and, admittedly, some things you wouldn't wish on a snake (but how had Sam said once: "You wont know that you're glad, if you were never sad." Dean laughed, Sam had been such a girl.)

One evening when he lied down in bed and, like every evening, stroked Sam's pillow on the empty bedside next to him, muttering: "Good night, Sam," before turning around to sleep, something was different. The bed felt so soft and his head felt so heavy, and suddenly he was to tired to close his eyes. He reached out to rest a hand on the tin box which was kept on the nightstand since Sam had died, even though Dean had never open it again. He pressed his nose to his pillow and it somehow strangely smelt like Sam, he took a very, very deep breath and than finally closed his eyes.

When he woke up it was late in the morning and the sunlight glistened through the curtains.  
He stretched and rubbed his eyes, feeling a little bit odd, as if he had slept for ages.

But than he heard soft sounds on the first floor and he sprung excitedly out of the bed and ran downstairs, his colored pajamas and his long blond hair messed up form sleeping.

His parents were sitting on the couch in the living room, smiling at something very small, which was wrapped up in a blanked on his mothers lap.  
"Why didn't you wake me up?" he said, heart beating fast, looking at his parents.  
"We'll hardly get some sleep anyway in the coming weeks, so we let you savor your last good nights rest as long as you want, " his father laughed.

Dean stepped to the couch and looked eagerly at the small something, which squirmed around a bit in the blanked and cried softly.  
"Can I hold him?" he asked nervously and climbed on the couch to sit next to his mother.

"Sure honey," his mother said, then she leaned towards him, pressed a kiss to his head and laid the baby carefully on his lap. Dean embraced the small bundle and looked at his little brother.  
"Hello Sam!" he said, not really knowing how he knew the name.  
His parents looked at each other, no one of them had told Dean that they had decided to name the new baby Sam, but in this moment everyone of them suspected the other one to have secretly told their older son the name, and they smiled knowingly at each other.

"Sammy!" Dean squealed with enjoyment as the baby stopped crying and opened his eyes to look at him.  
Suddenly a moment of unknowing deepness seized him as his little brother watched him in the eye, and it felt as if they had already spent a lifetime together, rich with adventures so big he couldn't wrap his four-year-old head around, and full with more deepest affinity than his young heart could appreciate.

"Sammy! Sammy!" he said again, and again, and even if Dean knew that it wasn't possible, since Sam was just born, it felt like a reunion.  
Dean laughed and Sam laughed and his father got the camera and took a picture of Dean and Sam how they met for the first time.

Dean didn't know from where, or how this complicated thought could have come to his mind, but he considered, if someone would have asked him right now, if he wanted to be together forever with Sam and watch out for him and be there for him until Sam's last breath in not quite a hundred years he would have said 'yes' without hesitation.

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Any good? To much mistakes? Post another story? Stop writing forever?  
Please let me know.  
Anyway, feel free to take one of the offered "Thank you so much for reading"-cookies, they're baked with love :-)


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